


Receiving End

by PinkAfroPuffs



Series: Fate/Slutty Meme Magus [6]
Category: Fate/Grand Order
Genre: F/M, Howl's moving castle references, Mutual Pining, and he projects, but he isn't always right, he's a sad wizard man, moron x moron, no actual sex! dont be fooled!, sex mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-09-06 10:33:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20290012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PinkAfroPuffs/pseuds/PinkAfroPuffs
Summary: What is life about more than indecision? Of receiving gifts? But to give them- oh, to give them is bliss! He will settle for the smaller wonders, of tall tales and entertainment. She deserves more than a cup of coffee. She deserves more than the world can give, and certainly more than him.





	Receiving End

**Author's Note:**

> this seriously gave me a headache but now that it's finished it doesn't look like I wrote that much and it's driving me up the wall. Merlin you are SUCH a dick. I love you xoxoxo please come home to me this september

Being surprised when she says “yes” is beyond him.

Or so he thinks. It _ should _ have been beyond him, but it was not. Again, a surprise. Actually, he was having quite a bit of those lately. Surprises. Or, suffice to say, it would be more accurate to call it “feeling”. Millenia came and went, but such things were still hard to explain. He was only a half-formed self, after all; only a certain amount of “emotion” or, no, that wasn’t right. A certain amount of _ substance _ that humans had, he’d never had much of. And it never bothered him. Mostly. 

(It always bothered him.)

Back to the yes’es. A yes for ‘may I enter’ is sufficient; a ‘yes’ for indulging whatever whim he might have was not. Still, he doesn’t hate it, though it nags at him. But he is an incubus. What has he to do but take?

“Master, would you like to hear the King’s Tale again?” He asks experimentally, leaning a mite too hard on his staff. It is an effort, he relents, to take up space wherever she is, to test how far she will go. How much can she take before she casts him out? For Artoria, it was-

“Only if you make them all warrior cats,” Ifumi replies. 

Her responses always amuse him, somehow. “Warrior cats, hm? Let me see…” What does he know about Warrior Cats that will amuse her, he wonders?

She flashes him a smile before he can manage it; is he surprised again? He doesn’t know. “I’m just kidding. Why don’t you tell me a different one? With magic in it, that doesn’t belong to you?”

He considers this, cocking his head to the side. “Well, well! If my lady has a request, I’ll have to comply ...hmm ...let's see, let’s see,” he muses, then takes a seat, propping his staff up against the table beside him. “Ah! I think you’ll like this one. In a land called Ingary, where such things as seven-league boots and cloaks of invisibility really exist-”

“Robin Hood has one of those here,” she began, but he held up a finger to his lips, suddenly excited.

“-magic,” he said, “is the least of one’s problems as the eldest child of three.” 

* * *

He propositioned her ever so often purely out of hospitality’s sake; what would she think if he didn’t tell her she was beautiful? All women want to hear such things. Forms of flattery that are often benign and empty, easy to see through and lacking in aggression- those are _ safe _. It is why when he asks if she needs help with stress and she says, “Yes,” he thinks twice about it.

“Hm?” Normally he would jump at the chance to indulge himself this way, but for some reason, he hesitates.

“I said...yes. If you were fine with that.” She says, though her back is turned to him, so she can’t see him considering such things in a manner that is not at all transparent. Somewhat transparent? Transparent.

“Hmm.” Why is he hesitating? Is he a fool? When she turns to look at him, he knows she’s _ serious _ , her earnest expression _ stunning _ against the sparkling hesitance in her own eyes, and a thought rushes through him like wind in a cold winter. “What would you like me to do then, Master?” He crosses his arms and tilts his head at her to watch her, wondering if she will turn this back on him and ask him to carry some files for her to Doctor Roman, because, ‘It says here your strength’s a B!’ “Coffee? Files? Ointment?”

“I don’t need those things right now,” she admits with a smile, and she manages to hold his gaze. He wonders how she truly feels about such things. Wonders why she’d said yes. Considers, too, what she would _ want _, specifically, and if she would tell him, or if he would have to tease and coax to find out-

“Oh?” He keeps his distance from her, intentionally. There is no shaking the unrest in his stomach- anxiety? discontentment- and he is astounded by how much he _ feels _ just standing there, deciding what to say, how to tell her these things and withhold them at once. “That’s too bad, Master~ I’m not in the mood, right now.” What is wrong with him? Hm...

“That’s fine,” she lets out a little sigh, clearly disappointed. Merlin is beginning to regret this already. “But I do mean it.”

“So do I,” he hums, and then he says, “Excuse me, Master. I’ve got work to do,” to make a stealthy exit.

* * *

Merlin turns the conversation from that day over and over in his mind, thinking, analyzing, wondering, wondering, _ wondering _ and becoming more and more curious about it. Merlin the Incubus would have jumped at the chance to jump her bones; she was _ quite _ the pretty Master and has no end of possible suitors-

Hm. Why did she ask him? Had something happened? Maybe the end of a relationship with another Servant, or...something? He must know, before he agrees to anything! Being prepared before that sort of encounter is a must, after all. 

It doesn’t occur to him that such things are not always necessary; he is not a therapist, nor her father or her brother, and he is barely a friend. He is a guide and that is all; he is a guide that is all he will be. Sex is not on the table. 

Sex….on the table-

His eyes roam to the ceiling. That _ would _ be fun. He finds himself scuttling to her person without being called, sensing she is not quite in her room and finding her in the common areas for staff and any other Chaldean Masters- if there were any.

It’s empty, save for her. As per usual, she’s pouring herself a cup of coffee and dumping loads of cream and sugar into it. Such is her nature. Handling bitterness is beneath her, he thinks, and like attracts like. “Oh, hey,” she says, though she doesn’t turn to look at him. It’s eerily similar to four nights ago; he studies her from behind and blocks off the doorway, lest anyone come to see them together. 

“Master,” he greets. “Are you feeling alright?”

“Hm?” When she turns to look at him, the brown of her eyes makes her look softer under the harsh light. “Why do you ask?”

He smiles, but softly, monitoring her reaction. “Have you broken up with someone? Attempting to mend a broken heart?”

There is something about her demeanor that visibly stiffens; she turns her back to him once more, and as she reaches up into the cabinet for something she just barely reaches, he crosses the space to aid her, leaning over her as he tips it down to take more easily. She seems small, like this. Curious. “No,” she admitted, looking up at him, though he notices she hasn’t asked him to back up yet. He does, anyway, though minutely. 

“Then why did you ask me for ‘that’?” He muses. “Unless there is an…’itch’ you need scratched?”

She doesn’t answer at first, though she does lean back against him enough to clearly be intentional before sliding past him and turning around to face him entirely, her hands back on the counter as she leans against it. “I was just curious,” she admits. “You joke about it all the time, but I wonder, would you ever make good on your word?”

There is a nagging feeling that he is gliding into a trap, but he shrugs. “I’m not above saying no, Master,” he begins, “but saying it too often exhausts me.” 

Her smile is enough to throw him. A certain edge, a certain _ angle _ of how it pulls at her full lips, how it gently wrinkles at her freckled nose, the way it sparks a devious twinkle in her eye- it throws him. Is throwing him. Is unknowable. What is she looking at? What is she seeing, hearing, _ saying _ about him to herself right now? Without giving a proper response, she pats his shoulder and moves past him. “Okay, I get it.”

What? What did she get? Was knowing worth it? “Mm?”

“I won’t ask anymore,” she says, grabbing a straw and taking a long sip of her coffee. “So don’t worry.” 

His heart plunged straight into his stomach. Cruel! Was she a succubus? To act like _ this _ to him, and then imply-

She looks impish. This is becoming less of a game and more of a chase- or maybe he should stop even half-chasing. She _ is _ his Master, after all, and a horrible fate awaits her. No one worth knowing had a happy life, or even a happy death, and he knew that she would be no different. He didn’t have to see it to know. He only need know of the destruction that would follow correcting the last Singularity. 

_ Should _ he chase her? For her own amusement? This is an interesting prospect, albeit an exhausting one. But the _ taste _….

Her _ flavor _-

“I never worry!” He lies. “Though I’m not above concern for _ you _, Master. You’re painfully human...doesn’t it bother you to run on nothing but coffee and energy bars?” Ah. A thought occurs to him. “If you’re interested, I could restore mana for you.”

“Isn’t that _ my _ job?” She jokes. “I read the contract thing. I can give Servants mana when they get hurt or need it.”

“Oh, of course it’s your job,” he continues, “but I don’t need mana from you. You see, I make my own, simply by breathing.”

“Like a dragon?”

“Mm, mm. Much like a dragon. I’m an incubus, after all. I have mana to spare. All it would take is a kiss-”

Would it be better for her to say no, or yes? He didn’t know yet. He’d wait for it to come and then decide to sort out his half-feelings on the matter afterward. 

“You don’t actually have to kiss to give mana,” she grins. Clever and booksmart as always. Like a sexy librarian-

“What’s the fun in doing it any other way?” He whines. “Master, I’m only trying to help. Can you get mad at me for that?” Just one kiss. Just _ one _ and his curiosity would be sated. 

“No,” she replied casually, though she shook her head. “But you’re right. If you can give me mana some other way, I’d be happy about it, actually. I think I might actually…” She stared at the hand that wasn’t holding her coffee mug. “...be changing, some. And I have to be able to keep you all well and taken care of.”

Oh, Ifumi. It was never about her, always about the Servants, the dead, the ones that were expendable. He shook his head, unable to hold back his amusement; truly, he would never understand humans. Truly, he would never understand _ her _. “Your priorities are wrong,” he says aloud. “Servants are expendable. Until this ‘war’ is over and humanity is safe, you, Ifumi Rockwell, are not.”

“Servants aren’t expendable in the way that you’re thinking,” she snaps, and he’s surprised again. By her fire. The passion in her eyes says more than she can with words. “...but I know. That’s what I meant. I need to take care of myself so that we can win, don’t I? And how do we win without Servants? A cycle that supports the other, right?”

She _ is _ right, but he feels it’s somewhat backwards. “...you are a wonder in ways that are not easily described,” he shakes his head. It’s easy to admit to himself, and easier, too, to put up the wall that comes with saying so. 

“I can’t tell if that’s a compliment or not,” her lip twitches to one side, clearly frustrated. “I hate when you get like this.”

He does, too. But he can’t help himself. Servant status be damned, he _ must _ keep up on the path before him, keep her walking as only she knows how. “Sorry,” the admission inclines his head slightly. “I can’t help myself. Sometimes it can be fun to be serious, hm?”

She is studying his face again. He knows he’s good-looking, but that doesn’t seem to be the reason. Then, with a shake of her head, she says, “Sometimes fun is too serious, I think.” 

Cruel. This is cruel of her. Of him, too. Can he decide on nothing? Will he watch or will he participate? Will stay or will he go? “Sometimes,” he agrees. “But I don’t plan on being serious for much longer. Come, Master. Why don’t we watch a movie?”

* * *

Ifumi is filling up popcorn bowls for Servants and staff alike, her hair pushed back by a yellow wrap-around headband and shaped into a black halo around her head as the counter for the movie of the night begins. When Merlin crosses his legs and sits at a table near the very front of the room, he wiggles in between some other Servants in an effort to annoy them and make room. As usual, the child Servants are willing to put up with his presence- though Ko-Gil is eyeing him in that way he does when he knows something. He smiles at Merlin benignly, albeit threateningly. 

“You’re very keen on Master, aren’t you?” He chirps, smiling as he tilts his head ever so to watch him. His red irises roam Merlin’s person; Merlin crosses his arms and gently meets the gaze with patience.

“Aren’t we all?” Merlin shrugs. “Is something bothering you, young king?”

“No,” his eyes narrow, but the smile doesn’t fade. “But I want you to know. If you harm Master in any way, you’ll get no mercy from me. Understand, magus?”

The words from a child carry the weight of a king; he has wondered more than once which Gilgamesh this _ really _ is and how far he’s come to shield his Master from the world, from people like Merlin who are only along for the ride. He _ is _ one of the first Servants summoned here; he must know more than he lets on. As such, “Oh, of course. Has something happened to Master, young king?”

His smile falls. There is a certain gleeful uncertainty that comes from seeing the true face of the first king of heroes, and Merlin watches impassively as he sneers at him. “Nothing _ will _ if you keep your distance, fool.”

“I see. Apologies, young king, but I am only a Servant. Master does what Master wants,” he began, though very carefully, as to soften the blow some. “Can one really be responsible for their own actions when compelled by a command spell?”

“Hmph,” he replies, and childishness puffs at his cheeks. “Say, Merlin...Master doesn’t permit killing,” he continued, “so I’ll let you off with a warning for now. That’s all.” After this, he stood, looming over him in a way that only Gilgamesh can, before rocking back on his heels and going to help their Master with the steadily growing popcorn quantities. 

He isn’t surprised when she takes a seat opposite of him, not quite beside him but near him enough to speak to. Still, she took up space in the same way he took up hers on the daily, so he couldn’t complain. Could he? Would he?

Pins and needles. Strange. His legs were used to such positions for long periods of time, but for some reason, his posture was irritating him. Or was it something else? Was it the way he was sitting? The popcorn?

_ “I am such a big coward, all I do is hide. And all of this magic is just to keep everybody away… I can’t stand how scared I am.” _

He didn’t ask who had chosen “Howl’s Moving Castle”. It was abundantly clear that while the whole crowd of Servants and staff alike seemed to be enjoying it, the last living Master watched with the sort of fondness that only came from enchantment of the most brilliant of wonders; the narrative favored her, or, moreso, she favored _ it _. More so than the movie, she was quite captivating; he caught himself- and made no move to change his focus- when his eyes settled on her more often than the screen. 

_ “Howl, I don’t care if you’re a monster, please, just tell me what’s going on!” _

It’s a sweet story, in theory. But “love” doesn’t always change people the way they want it to. Too many things are uncertain; sometimes, even when one tries as hard as they might, they cannot change the past, they cannot change the future and most of all, they cannot change themselves. There is something nuanced in the words the heroine says, something hidden that eludes him- but Ifumi sees it, apparently. He’d never seen her eyes so wide before, nor how she rests her head on her hands, in rapt attention as she leans toward the screen. Maybe that is part of being human. Or why he’s not. 

_ “Sorry, I've had enough of running away, Sophie. Now I've got something I want to protect: it's you." _

What strength Howl must have. How noble. On the brink of death, he stays with Sophie, despite the war brewing, and trouble coming. He _ should _ run away- again and again and again if it permits. Maybe that will save her. Maybe that will save them both.

He shifts out of his seat and quietly grabs his staff before scooching past some other Servants with complaints of a “bathroom break”- though he doesn’t intend on returning. He is a foolish old man, full of foolish old things; an incubus full of rotten dreams and twisted realities. He doesn’t belong here. He doesn’t belong anywhere, really, so he settles for taking up space here and there and borrowing time where it permits. That is living. To be useful enough to be called upon when needed and not cast away, that is enough. 

“Caster?”

The whisper turns his head as he walks just past the open door of the home-theater room- Master- and instinctively, he smiles. “Mm? Is the movie already over?”

She slides out of the room and closes the door behind her. “No. But you seemed...off. I wanted to worry about you, some.”

He wishes eliciting a laugh from him was more challenging for her, but alas, it is not. “Oh? How so?”

She doesn’t answer. Instead she replies, “You have popcorn in your hair.”

“Hm~?” He turns a bit, as he cannot see effectively behind his person, mistakenly doing a full 180 to face her. “Where?”

“Turn around,” she smiles, and he does. Though the weight is minor, he can feel her fingers gently threading through the curls and waves of his iridescent hair; he sucks in a breath as he considers the night by the campfire, and wonders what it would take to ask her to braid it again. There had been something pleasant about it, a kind of _ taste _ he wasn’t quite sure of, though it smelled familiar, like the coconut shampoo Ifumi used, or the buttery scent of popcorn. “Here.” She held it up for him to validate her claim, though he would have allowed her to touch him anywhere she pleased, if she asked-

….well. She had already asked. If she asked _ concisely _. “Mm, how lucky I am to have such a picky Master. It’s nice to be fussed over sometimes.”

He doesn’t miss her eyebrows rising; whatever she’s realized softens at her eyes and mouth when she smiles at him. “...yeah. I guess so. Hey, you have more popcorn stuck in your hair. Should I just comb it out?”

She’s clever. He wants to tell her that if she wants to comb his hair so badly, she can only ask- he doesn’t mind it- but the excuse is enough for social conventions to allow his, “Only if you commit to the whole thing~” without giving away his ulterior motives. He wants to know more about this feeling, this _ taste _ that she gives him, the complex flavors and consistency changing with every action she takes towards him. 

“I am, I am,” she says, and when her hand caresses his shoulder to lead him to her room, he wonders when he’ll stop taking from her. But he is human, after all. All he can do is take.


End file.
